


Sealing the Deal

by Flammenkobold



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time, Monsterfucking, Possessive Sex, Vaginal Fingering, does this count as waxplay?, mild nippleplay, too many burning references, voyeurism of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammenkobold/pseuds/Flammenkobold
Summary: Agnes and Gertrude seal the deal to destroy Emma Harvey. It's just a weak excuse for the thing they both truly want anyway - each other.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29
Collections: Femslash After Dark 2020





	Sealing the Deal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bittercape (bittercape)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittercape/gifts).



“It’s a deal then.” There is a finality in Gertrude’s voice that surprises herself. Allying herself with the one woman she had sworn to never meet, the one she bound herself to when she was still too young to understand what being the Archivist would entail, is not something she ever wanted to do. That she is doing it to kill the one person she has trusted for decades to do so is the most surprising thing about it. But in order to have any chance of outmaneuvering the Mother of Puppets she needs fire and there is nothing burning hotter than an Avatar of the Desolation turned flesh and bone.

“Seal it with a kiss?” 

That request throws Gertrude, and there are few things that manage these days. 

“Surely you jest.”

Agnes shrugs, one of her delicate top straps shifting on her petite shoulders, and only years of steeling herself stop Gertrude from following the motion with her eyes. She is beautiful in precisely the way Gertrude has always found alluring in the few partners she took. She is also frozen in time, eternally stuck in her twenties, like a wax figure. Something that Gertrude shouldn’t forget.

“It seems only traditional.” Agnes bites her lips in something that Gertrude supposes is meant to be alluring by someone who only knows about it second hand. And yet, Agnes’s lips manage to capture her interest.

Gertrude snorts. “Thank you, but I’d rather keep my face.”

Agnes blinks at her, tilts her head, as if Gertrude said something puzzling. “I wouldn’t hurt you,” Agnes says. “I don’t think I could,” she adds more softly.

“If you say so.” Gertrude wants to laugh at her, wants to call her a liar, but Agnes seems so earnest, she almost believes her. It doesn’t help that whatever bond was forged between them that day pulls Gertrude even harder to her, especially now that they’re finally in the same room. It doesn’t help either that a part of her is very curious at the prospect.

Agnes reaches for her hand and grabs it before Gertrude can draw away. It feels like touching a furnace, like looking into the sun for too long, like placing her hand on an oven plate that is still hot. Yet, the touch isn’t _painful_ , isn’t burning her. She still jolts away in shock, even as her own fingers curl tightly around Agnes’. 

“I would prefer if you didn’t do that without informing me,” Gertrude says, but can’t bring herself to extract her hand from Agnes’ grip.

“I’m sorry,” Agnes says in a way Gertrude isn’t sure she means it. “I just wanted to prove to you that I couldn’t hurt _you.”_

A weak chuckle escapes Gertrude’s lips. “You’ve done at that.”

Agnes smiles at her, sweetly, genuinely. “So will you seal it with a kiss?”

Gertrude doesn’t need to look down at their hands to be aware of how their fingers are already entwined. She’s fought against temptation and her own curiosity all her life, but there is a reason she is the Archivist. There are things she _needs_ to know, especially when they are unique and there isn’t anyone more singularly unique to Gertrude Robinson’s existence than Agnes Montague and the twisted bond they share enforced by the same entity Gertrude wants to remove from her Archives.

“Very well,” she acquiesces. 

Agnes leans in, eyes lowered, almost shy, almost sweet for someone who could scorch the entire building and half the city if she so wished.

Gertrude doesn’t expect the kiss to be anything other than fleeting, but the chastity and clumsiness of it does surprise her. 

“You call that a kiss?” she asks mockingly. Agnes lips just quirk up into a smile.

“Show me then?” She asks and the thing about Gertrude is that she is not tempted by much anymore, but she always used to be weak for a pretty face that showed interest in her. That and playing with fire. 

Gertrude snorts, brings her hand up to cup Agnes' cheek. Her skin is smooth, too smooth for a human, to perfect, and it is in stark contrast to Gertrude’s aging hands. Agnes lets herself be guided and Gertrude draws her into a slow kiss. She takes her time to savour the taste of Agnes, waxen as it is, her furnace hot breath burning inside her mouth. Her teeth scrape over Agnes’ lower lip and when she nips at it Agnes gasps to Gertrude’s delight. 

Now with the thinly veiled excuse of sealing the deal thrown out of the window, Gertrude allows herself to take full advantage of the offered opportunity - something which Agnes doesn’t seem to mind in the least.

If anything she grows more desperate, and the more she does the hotter she burns under Gertrude’s lips and hands. When she leans back Agnes whimpers, eyes half closed and burning embers. She tries to chase the kiss but Gertrude slips her hand into Agnes’ soft hair and pulls her back, looks her over like she is a particularly fascinating specimen of a pinned insect.

Gertrude likes what she sees. 

Agnes stares back at her, eyes a bit clearer now, but she clearly likes what she sees too.

She reaches out for Gertrude, runs her fingers over Gertrude’s arm, over her face and the side of her neck and it feels like she is burning marks into Gertrude’s skin. Well, if this is how she wants to play it, Gertrude will. She pulls her back in, tugs at her hair to tilt her head back further and bite into her delicate throat, sucks at the pulse beating rabbit fast under her lips.

“Yes,” Agnes breathes out and her own hands grab at Gertrude, one on her hip, the other burying into her hair, undoing the immaculate bun she wears.

Under other circumstances she might have savoured this encounter longer, but there is an old yearning burning inside her, one that was there since the day she first saw a picture of Agnes, all grown up, long hair glinting in the sun. And it is sadly not like they have time at all, so she will make the most of what they do have.

She pulls Agnes' skirt up, pushes her underwear down with Agnes’ help. Her fingers slip into the burning heat that is Agnes’ cunt, her flesh pliant and soft. She isn’t wet, not in a normal sense, but hot fluids drip over Gertrude’s fingers onto her wrist, evaporating from there, leaving a waxy feeling on her skin. 

The sounds Agnes makes are pitiful, high whines and whimpers, and with no little satisfaction Gertrude realizes that she must be the first person to touch her so intimately. A lifetime spent as a goddess, and no one has worshipped her like this. She twists her fingers cruelly, rubs her thumb over Agnes’ clit, wanting to see what other noises she can wring out of her. Unlike her Gertrude has her fair share of experience, most of them ill advised, some not as fun, all of them educational if nothing else.

Agnes claws at her shoulder, at the wall behind her, mouth open and more obscene noises slipping out between her lips. Gertrude lets go of pressing burning kisses into Agnes’ throat in favour of leaning back and watching her. Agnes’ face is full of need, her eyes fixed on Gertrude. Looking back at her as if she is as much a sight to behold as Agnes is now. Like Gertrude is the only one who is allowed to see her like this. Gertrude quietly vows that no one else will lay eyes on her in this state, not even the cruel gods that have taken hold of both their lives. 

She pumps her fingers in and out of Agnes, hard and fast, pulling out only to pinch her clit hard enough for Agnes to yell out, before soothing her with gentler strokes and scissoring her open. 

“Do me a favour and play with your tits,” Gertrude orders her, her own voice deceptively breathless already, her words cruder than the ones she would usually pick. Agnes’ nods shakily and pulls her hands from where they were still clutching at Gertrude, almost unwillingly, like she too can’t stop savouring the touch between them, greedily lapping up the physical contact that they both were denied and denied themselves for so long, like flames lapping at parched paper.

Agnes’ breasts are supple and well rounded, they don’t give her age away, just like the rest of her body doesn’t. Firm and ripe and just big enough to fit nicely into her own hands. She squeezes them, toys with them, until Gertrude can see the hardening nipples through her thin blouse. 

Gertrude raises her eyebrows at her. “Is that all?” she edges her on and Agnes coyly runs her fingers around the hard nubs, before pinching them, rolling them between her fingers. Gertrude drinks in the sight of her - debauched and wanton and all for Gertrude’s eyes only. Gertrude speeds up her ministrations again, pushes in one more finger to make Agnes groan helplessly, her hands tightening around her breasts, fingers squeezing her nipples painfully. Something Agnes enjoys and a fact Gertrude files away neatly inside her mind for personal uses in the future. 

Agnes squirms on her fingers, squeezes tight around them, almost rhythmically now, so very close to coming. Gertrude slaps one of Agnes’ hands aside with her free hand and reels her in again, making it easier to bite into her lips in the mockery of a kiss. The angle of her fingers shift inside Agnes and it is enough to drive her over the edge. Agnes comes screaming, the temperature in the empty room ratcheting up - the aftermath of an explosion.

Gertrude removes her fingers, wipes them clean on Agnes’ blouse, while Agnes is still panting for breath. 

“Your turn,” she says and manages to keep her voice far more steady than she feels. Agnes laughs against her collarbone, still breathless, the air escaping her mouth scorching hot like a dragon’s breath.

“It’s only fair,” Agnes agrees and presses a kiss to Gertrude’s shoulder, before lowering herself to the ground.

She kneels between Gertrude’s legs, reaches below Gertrude’s skirt to slide her soaked underwear down her legs. Gertrude watches her, lets her do it at her own pace, as Agnes lifts first one of her feet and then the other to get rid of the ruined cotton panties entirely. Then she returns to running her hands up Gertrude’s legs, pushing her skirt up to expose her sex. Agnes stares for a moment, tongue flickering out to wet her lips, before she hesitantly reaches out to press her thumb against where Gertrude is so very wet for her.

“Well, get to work, will you.”

“I have not done this before,” Agnes says matter of factly, no shame in it, no embarrassment, just a statement of what Gertrude should expect from her, as if Gertrude hadn’t guessed at it already. She huffs out a nearly harsh laugh. 

“I can teach you, don’t worry.”

Agnes smiles again, a flickering thing like a solar flare. “Then teach me,” she says, nuzzling already at Gertrude’s thigh. Gertrude sinks her fingers into Agnes’s luscious hair and guides her to where she is burning for her.


End file.
